


Angels Smell like Cigarettes (and other fun stories)

by Wrennydennydoo



Series: And Other Fun Stories [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Study, Dean Winchester is Loved, Destiel - Freeform, Enby Character, Fix-It, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Injured Castiel (Supernatural), Kidnapped Dean Winchester, Lactose Intolerant Castiel, Lovesick Castiel (Supernatural), Moody Sam Winchester, Non-Binary Dean Winchester, Other, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, five things, graphic injury depiction, implied eldritch castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-11-18 22:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrennydennydoo/pseuds/Wrennydennydoo
Summary: Somehow, Dean thinks, the freak of nature that is their relationship was meant to exist.Or, Dean and Cas's relationship develops as time allows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Tomorrow when the farm boys find this  
> freak of nature, they will wrap his body  
> in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
> 
> But tonight he is alive and in the north  
> field with his mother. It is a perfect  
> summer evening: the moon rising over  
> the orchard, the wind in the grass.  
> And as he stares into the sky, he sees  
> twice as many stars as usual."  
> -Laura Gilpin

**i.**

“Are we taking him with us?” Sam asks.

He’s moody. Moodier than normal; every once in a while Sam has this outbreak of emotions that Dean is never quite sure what to do with. It hasn’t happened yet but it’s building into something like anger, and this is how Dean knows it’s time to find another hunt. Sam’s anger might kill them both, but it won’t get them killed.

Now he’s glaring at Castiel’s unconscious vessel as if it’s to blame for Michael interfering in their attempt to escape destiny. Which he might be; Dean doesn’t really know what to think after knowing Cas betrayed Anna, or after he disappeared while Jo and Ellen decided to sacrifice themselves. By the way Sammy scowls, he’s having similar thoughts.

Dean, however, knows that leaving Cas sick and basically asleep would be the equivalent of handing him over to demons. Even while weak, Castiel is still their best chance at stopping the apocalypse.

“Yep. We can’t leave him here, he’s defenseless,” Dean replies. Carrying a limp body out of a motel room is slightly suspicious, so they give Castiel until dark to wake up by himself. At one point, Dean thinks his eyes open, but when Dean goes to check he lets out a cough that seems to be expelling a large amount of phlegm from the vessel’s lungs.

Sam’s bag lets out a zipppppppp as it’s closed, and rattles as it is hauled outside to the trunk of the impala. Somehow Sam and Dean manage to haul the sick (?) angel out to the car too, despite the fact that the vessel weighs about seven tons. Sam tries to shove Castiel in a sleeping, painful-looking sprawl onto the back seat.

Dean shoots their brother a glare. Cas is, for all intents and purposes, asleep, and you don’t just throw a sleeping person in the backseat of a car. It’s rude. Dean crawls in through the other car door, props Castiel’s head against the window, pulls his feet off the seat, and fastens the seat belt to keep the vessel from tipping over sideways. During this process, Dean can sense Sam judging them. They ignore it.

 

**ii.**

The joint is crowded and disgusting. Somehow it manages to be unbearingly bright and way too dark at the same time; the lights are flashing erratically to music and the walls might be painted black. They push through a cluster of twenty people to reach a table, none of which are waiting to sit down and all of whom smell like decaying corpse. They yell-order one large plain pizza, no sauce. There’s so much grease on it that Dean feels the urge to spit it out, let alone Cas. He looks like he’s having a tiny existential crisis as he daintily chews off the tip of a slice, even though it’s just cheese. It makes Dean feel bad for dragging him out of the motel room.

As if he catches the tail end of Dean’s thought, Cas sends a wry inside-smile at them. Late night TV with a moody Sam would have been better than this.

“Good pizza?” Dean jokes.

“I think I’m lactose intolerant,” Cas shouts back, looking perturbed. They both give up on eating pretty quickly.

Outside, the air makes Dean’s cheeks go light pink and goose bumps rise on their arms. Castiel wraps a little tighter into the tan overcoat. Dean wonders if he can actually feel the cold, or if acting cold is a reaction he’s developing. Like eating. Cas doesn’t need to eat, but sometimes he goes through the motions to “establish camaraderie” with the humans he’s around. The way that if he doesn’t have a lead to follow, he’ll borrow a bed or couch and do something resembling meditation while Dean and Sam sleep.

Or maybe Castiel’s vessel still gets cold.

Castiel would probably rather just do the teleport-thing back to the motel room, except Dean is walking and the whole point of this was to be near Dean. So Cas walks. It’s really considerate of him, Dean thinks. There’s a weak point in their chest each time they find another considerate Cas Thing.

They don’t think about what that means.

 

**iii.**

The smell of old, boiled beer slowly infiltrates Dean’s head. An attempt is made to roll over. It does not go well. Dean wants to retch. Their throat is inflexible and sore, like they’ve been dry heaving fingernails, or teeth. Not an implausible theory, considering the external red lingering on their lips or the tough bit of a weird meaty wedge stuck behind their tongue. They wonder whose flesh it is. Could be theirs. Dean thinks they might actually be down a tooth.

They think they can hear Sam, muffled sounds on the phone. Sammy, the good old designated driver. Dean wonders what happened last night; bar fight, or hunt and celebration? The nightstand is unfamiliar, but the phone on it isn’t. Seven missed calls, and Dean thinks they want to care. Dean thinks a lot of things.

Time is broken. Not time. The little half-broken alarm clock. Its hands look stuck around two-thirty, the sixty-second marker tick-tick-ticking fruitlessly. No apples for you, Dean thinks nonsensically. When did the clock stop? A.M. or P.M.? Dean wishes clocks had day markings as well as hour and second and minute. If they could sit up, they could look at the insides and fix it. Apple of knowledge. Know why the two hands aren’t ticking. Dean wanders the garden in their head.

Dean watches the little angry second half-ticking hand for two hundred three ticks before tuning back into the voice on the phone. The voice is frustrated. A little thrill of worry pops down Dean’s spine as they shift again.

There is only one bed in this room.

Sammy’s voice has a cadence, when he’s frustrated. It rises in a way, the way he usually says “ _De_ an,” with an upwards warning lilt when they disagree and it gets gritty when his teeth bite against each other. It gets soft when he is worried Dean has done something stupid, and it gets warm and higher when he talks to Bobby, and uneven and nasally when he talks to Ruby, when he’s nervous.

Dean is on the only bed in the room. The voice yelling to the phone is nasally. It stays nasally, without variation or softness or the familiar sounds that Dean traces with his ears. It was muffled before, by their inability to focus and by the clock and by the walls. But now the wallpaper jumps out in juxtaposition to the noises, green floral and the static that Dean’s head starts producing as they listen.

The voice does not sound like Sammy’s.

Suddenly the seven missed calls on his phone become a beacon of concern. If their fingertips would respond, they could stretch and grab it. As they try, Dean’s fingertips grow dark spots. Vision is the first thing to malfunction when losing consciousness. Often preceded by lightheadedness. The second thing is coherent thought process. Dean reaches for their phone.

They don’t remember pressing dial.

“Hello?” Says the one on the other end. Dean knows this voice. This voice can help.

“Hel..” They manage to get out before the throat gives up. The water on the nightstand would probably help. A lot of things would probably help.

“Who is this? Dean? Dean where are you,” The one says. Dean wants to say _I’m here, please come find me I don’t know where I am and I don’t know who I’m with and also everything hurts, please don’t hang up on me_ but the throat has gone numb. They try letting out a high pitched whimper instead, hoping that gets the message across. It certainly hurts less than talking. Everything hurts.

The one lets out a growl. “I’m coming. I’m going to stay on the phone with you, ok? I won’t hang up.”

There is static in Dean’s head as they pray for the angel. The static in their head grows until it is in their eyes too. There is someone saying things through the...the talky thing, the phone, that sounds the way comfort feels.There is static.

When Dean comes back into the thing known as coherency, the one that stayed on the phone has hung up. Beep, beep, beep says the phone. There are fighting noises somewhere that Dean cannot see. The fighting noises sound like something good is happening, and that the one that hung up the phone is in the other room. There is lots of shouting noises, and a familiar teddy bear anger-worry that is usually directed at Dean. Dean likes it when the teddy bear anger is directed at someone else. It means that they and the one aren’t arguing, and it’s kinda attractive. Dean likes the one. The one came for them, like he always does. Everything should be ok now.

When Dean blinks again, the one is standing over them and resting their entire hand over their forehead. There is no cool relief clarity like there normally is when Dean’s person touches their forehead. Just static.

“I’m going to pick you up,” The one in the room says. Dean thinks _ok_ really loudly because the one in the room can probably hear them, and oh, _why are you covered in blood, I liked the trenchcoat and now it’s ruined_. Dean isn’t worried about the blood. The one carrying them is usually fine. Besides, he’s fine enough to pick Dean up and strong enough to do it without Dean’s arms and head dangling over his shoulders, and they rest their head on his chest in lieu of the dangling. It’s much nicer this way.

 _Your shoulders are comfy,_ Dean says.

The one carrying them huffs in amusement. _You are drugged,_ he replies. _Rest._

 

**iv.**

Now, from one of the beds (plural. and they know they’re safe), Dean watches Castiel’s lethargic head of brown bed hair as he bleeds all over the motel couch. His hair is possibly the most ridiculous hair that Dean has ever looked at. It sticks up everywhere. It’s obvious that Cas cares about as much about his hair as he cares about the clothing that the body is adorned with-- minimal effort required.

Which probably explains why, even though the the blood is creating a small lake out of his abdomen, he refuses Sam’s efforts to bandage it. Their argument is mainly aggressive murmuring, as if they think Dean will be even more disturbed by the pair than they already are by the angel bleeding on the motel couch.

“Sam, I do not need bandages or… or whatever. It will heal on its own.” Cas insists, though the way his fingers  are splayed over his stomach disagrees. Dean can’t see Sam’s face, but his shoulders are tensed in a way that says Cas is going to lose this argument.

“If you, if you gotta hold your intestines in, you probably need medical care-- _regardless_ of whatever magical healing mumbo jumbo you have,” Dean says, sitting up. They roll their shoulders a couple times. No serious injuries, no stiffness. They do have one hell of a headache, but fortunately someone thought ahead and there are a few aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand-- somehow more familiar to its surroundings than the previous one that Dean woke up to.

(The water on the nightstand is all Cas. Sammy would’ve put out a beer bottle; the little warm spot in their chest pulses when they realize that Castiel was the one to put out pain meds for Dean. Even if there isn’t alcohol to go with them. Dean downs it all.)

“You good?” Sam asks Dean. Cas lets out a sound halfway between nails on chalkboard and a baby crying. “Oh, shush, it’s just stitches.”

“Yeah, I’m all good,” Dean says. Their shirt smells. On a second whiff, Dean comes to the unfortunate conclusion that everything smells. “I’m gross and definitely confused about what happened last night, but yeah. I’m gonna go shower.”

They don’t really remember what happened, and Cas didn’t tell Sam about it. When Dean asked him later, he just says “I took care of it” and refuses to make eye contact. As if that isn’t a completely ominous thing to say. Dean isn’t sure they want to know.

 

**v.**

Some things are easy for Dean to think about. Cas-- _Castiel_ is not one of them. An angel? God? Fuck? They are not morally or emotionally equipped to deal with this. There are too many issues with the world for Dean to believe, and yet. And yet fate tests them once again, and Castiel’s true form is some shining-light-being with too many eyes; he says _be not afraid_ in Dean’s fucking _head_ and expects that to calm Dean down.

But then, Dean let him stay, didn’t they. Somehow, they arrived at this place, and Dean admits that it’s probably their fault. A lot of things are their fault.

Castiel looks into their head sometimes. It’s a messy place, Cas murmurs into their ear, and Dean shivers like the intimacy of this closeness matters to them. They don’t want it to. Cas knows that. Cas knows everything about them, from the worst and sickest memory of abandonment and terror to the brightest. Cas can show them a smile they thought they’d never see again, and what their mothers’ favorite flowers used to be. Carefully, Castiel is mending some the broken things is Dean’s skull, as Dean weeps into his chest. They feel--oddly lucid, like that poem about the two-headed cow, the stars being twice as bright as normal.

(right before the cow dies, they remind themself, but Cas brushes that thought quiet.)

Castiel has a multitude of eyes. And for the first time since mom, Dean can see the stars through the sky.

Dean can deal with that.  

 

**vi.**

Later, Dean thinks of how what they’ve done feels like cheating somehow, as if they’ve cheated the Devil and cheated Death and they don’t deserve a happy ending. They don’t, not really, and someday they’ve vowed to make a memorial to the ones who are dead. Everyone who died, even if they don’t deserve it.

But right now, Cas stands in the garden and offers them an _apple, love_.

Dean smiles.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the idea of possession, emotions are new to Castiel in the sense that they are his.

He is (not?) in love with his best friend. How new it feels, to have a “best” anything; possession is not a new concept to Castiel, but the human desire to _hold on_ to something solid is not something he felt before--this. This is a feeling for those that want to be forever, for the ghosts of rotted and human spirits that cannot ever be free. Things like love for his father are intangible and eternal, unable to become the faded washed-out versions of humanity. Castiel has not wanted in a long time.

And as he walks through the skeleton of this old place, he is found. There are old words in his head, or maybe in Castiel’s fathers’ head; _Let one be god_ , but he does not presume to know to whom these words were meant.

They’re written on his clavicle, in a caress from someone long dead that Castiel does (not.) hold onto.

Sometimes, Castiel wonders if he remembers the touch of his father correctly. It was a soft, to be a part of him, and warm, in the sense that any touch is. Sometimes he misses it so fiercely it feels like his grace is being ripped out.

It is here, in between the polished pine benches with the smell of communion wine, where he feels it in his (borrowed) shoulder blades. He’s been feeling it more often, more recently, in places where he does not expect it; yesterday it was when Dean bought him a book they thought Castiel would like, and a week ago when Castiel took a moment to pause in a park to look at a rose. It feels like a sigh, golden, preserved in someone else’s memory but his own.

If God is to not return, Castiel will keep the touch of his father alive.

* * *

 

They are in a motel room after an exhausting hunt. Castiel followed them there, awkward and out of space to flee to. There are only so many places to be in heaven, and every one of them has the siblings that he’s avoiding; even Joshua is short-tempered, frustrated with the actions of his family and with a short temper for Castiel.

The air rips around his wings and he’s by Dean in their temporary room.

“I thought you left?” Dean says, their hands in their suitcase searching for clean laundry. Castiel shakes his head.

“Heaven is too full of opinions right now. Do you mind if I…?” Castiel gestures to the room, uncomfortable with how little he thought this through. Dean shrugs.

“Make yourself at home. I’m gonna shower, but I think there’s a copy of the Lion King in the VCR player I was going to watch if you want to turn it on.” Castiel has no idea what the Lion King is, but learning to work a VCR player isn’t hard. And then the opening strains of music play, and Castiel feels it. Transfixed by the animation through a glass screen, Castiel can feel the touch of God on the top of his head, as if blessing him, and the Lion King feels like a gift.

By the time Dean gets out of the shower, the touch of his father has left him, Mufasa has died, and Castiel has tears rolling helplessly down his (borrowed) cheeks. It is only a fiction, yet Castiel weeps. An angel weeping at the death of a cartoon character.

“Oh boy,” Dean murmurs. “Hey, Cas… You alright there, buddy?”

Castiel’s eyebrows press together. “No. I don’t understand human emotions at all,” because that his biggest problem. Jimmy in this vessel left no residue of human behavior for Castiel to follow, and emotions leave him at a loss.

Like the idea of possession, emotions are new to Castiel in the sense that they are _his_.

Dean kneels down beside him, their hands pulling them down to the ground and they fold their legs to the side. “Do you want me to turn to movie off?” They ask, but Castiel says no. It’s a good movie, and once Dean joins him they sing along to all of the songs and do all of the character voices. The emotion(s) in Castiel’s (borrowed) head feel less imposing now than they did at Mufasa’s death.

Near the end, Castiel has a small idea. “Dean?” He asks.

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if I…” And here he pauses, unsure of human etiquette relating to that of what he wants to ask. His tongue feels thick and clumsy. “Can I use your… Can I use your head to do the, the thing with human emotions?”

Dean turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You mean enter my mind and do some weird angel hoodoo?”

“I wouldn’t touch anything in your head,” Castiel points out. “Only use your emotions for a framework for how to cope.”

“Do angels not have emotions?”

Castiel shrugs. “Not like humans do,” and leaves it at that. “Physical responses are not something I’m used to.”

He doesn’t expect Dean to say yes, but the both of them are drunk on exhaustion and a late night energy that crackles between them. It is a(nother) small mercy Dean grants him, using their mind as a way to interpret how to feel things; Castiel learns by example, and Dean (while not the best example of how to cope) is still an example, and Cas(tiel) cannot take the heady rush of his (borrowed) feelings. _Having a thousand people in your head probably tends to wash out how intense you feel things,_ Dean remarks, curled up in Castiel’s skull as Castiel peruses Dean’s.

Is it borrowing if he doesn’t intend on giving it back? He wonders, as he borrows information from Dean’s head.

* * *

 

Castiel knows he is loved, and that he _has_ loved. He can remember the impression of his father, warm and lingering, all citrus and sand, telling him _Castiel you have so much love to give, be careful with that_ , and he can remember grieving over someone, fallen, dead, human.

He does not remember who. After all, the ocean of time washes away all footprints on the beach eventually.

As Dean presses light kisses underneath Cas’s (borrowed) chin, all breath and sweetness, he promises not to let this go. This moment is his, belonging to both of them, and Castiel will hold it in his mind to the limits of his being.

Castiel has never made a promise to himself before.

Dean, still wearing the collared shirt (sans tie) that make up his FBI Agent disguise, is going too slow, so Cas flips them over to help the situation out. Dean fusses a little, but Castiel has been in their head and knows that they’re into it. He says as much.

Dean goes a breathless shade of pink and rolls their hips a little. “What else am I into?” They flirt, and Castiel lifts his lips in a smile and shows them.

The morning after is awkward, up until Castiel spills coffee on himself, all over the t-shirt he borrowed from Dean. It is scalding, and his face pinches up in discomfort before realizing that the shirt is white, and will probably stain.

“Oh, _no,_ ” He says, and then Dean snorts. And Dean starts laughing at the look on Castiel’s face, these small embarrassed mild giggles that Cas doesn’t get to hear often. He starts smiling too, and then it’s too hard not to laugh at himself. He finally understands why people say laughter is contagious, because he wants to catch Dean laughing and hold it in his being always.

That’s when Sam finds them, Dean in their silky bathrobe and Castiel wearing one of Dean’s band shirts while in his boxers.

“...Are you two… Did you guys…?” Sam asks, pausing as he connects the dots. Sam shakes his head, leaving the kitchen. He shouts behind him on his way out, “No PDA in the Bunker!”

Dean chuckles, shouts a “You betcha!” back at their brother, and leans forwards to kiss Cas.

 _You are holy_ , Castiel thinks.

* * *

From his place in the gaps of space, Castiel sits between the pews of this church and sings, holy. He echoes praise with the congregation as the presenter holds it in his mouth, full, and these people sing, holy. The hall around them, old as the bones of the land below them, reverberates like a lost friend. This music is wailing, strong, and the tidal pull drags him in.

He sings holy, and wonders if angels can sin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The singing mentioned is psalm singing, which is the most haunting and beautiful thing I've ever heard. It's a form of psalms done where the person leading, or the presentor, sings a melody and opening line of a psalm, and the congregation follows after the opening in their own time. It's really beautiful, as well a tradition that's dying out in the communities that do it. Here's a link:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3MzZgPBL3Q


	3. Chapter 3

Cas comes back. Their Cas, they dare hope, but the blank gey of Meg’s eyes keeps it low. The two of them Dean would consider polar opposites, but… they work. Maybe that’s why they work. They wonder why it sounds so bitter, put like that. They stand behind Castiel as the pair says their goodbyes. They get in the car with Cas and drive to some point past the realm of comprehension, when Dean no longer remembers where they were going. This aimlessness was supposed to be gone with Castiel back, like being near an angel would give Dean a direction. That’s what Sam thought. 

At some point they realize they and Cas have switched places, him in the wheel well and Dean in the passenger seat. They aren’t alarmed by that, and the realization steals sweetly over them as they realize. 

“I trust you,” They say, with wonder on the tip of their tongue. 

Cas, the doofus who doesn’t know what a gift that trust is, replies like he doesn’t know he’s allowed to say it back. “I trust you, too.” 


End file.
